


White Bean Chicken Soup

by MostWeakHamlets



Series: A.Z Fell Cooking (aka vlogger au) [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Chronic Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, PTSD, Sickfic, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Vlogger AU, aziraphale has a cooking show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27791611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostWeakHamlets/pseuds/MostWeakHamlets
Summary: Crowley has a fever. Aziraphale makes soup. YouTube watches.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A.Z Fell Cooking (aka vlogger au) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610359
Comments: 43
Kudos: 208





	White Bean Chicken Soup

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the long author's note. 
> 
> I’ve received a lot of messages and comments in the past saying that this AU is comforting to people who have to take care of a loved one who was ill. I never really understood how it managed to touch so many people. I’ve never had to take care of someone before, and I assumed it was simply intuition mixed with what I had watched on TV that made me write something I’ve never experienced before so well. 
> 
> But as I was writing this, my dad told me that my uncle is basically dying (which wasn’t news. He’s been in bad health for years, but it’s been worse these past few weeks). And he mentioned that so much of what’s happening reminds him and my aunt of what their dad went through before he died. There’s hospital visits, treatments, pills, inhalers, ambulances, and setting up your home so they can essentially live on the couch. I remembered all of that as a kid when my grandfather was in poor health in years. I remembered visiting, and he slept a lot and was on oxygen and had pills separated by day. And I thought about my grandmother in a nursing home. And I thought about even my own mother and her health battles when I was young. I thought about my dad and repeated minor bouts of skin cancer.  
> And then I started thinking that maybe… seeing my family as the caretakers and needing care for years has shaped this AU without me realizing. I thought that I needed this AU because I was struggling with my own, very minor health issues, but I think there might be more to it. 
> 
> I don’t know what to make all of this, and I don’t know if I care to dive much deeper into my own psyche. But if this AU has been any sort of comfort to you, then please know that that means the world to me. I cherish all of the comments that I get from people who see themselves as either Aziraphale or Crowley, and I want you all to know that we’re working through our situations together.

Aziraphale did what he could to make sure Crowley was comfortable. He used a miracle to freshen the sheets, plumped the pillows, helped him swallow two pills, and laid a cold compress on his forehead. Water and tea sat on the bedside table with a neat pile of handkerchiefs. His phone was charging and within arm's reach. All in all, Crowley was well looked after. Aziraphale had given him anything he could have possibly needed. 

But he couldn’t do much else for the high fever, cramps, and general discomfort from being ill for so long. 

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Aziraphale asked. “I can plait your hair if you’d like. Or make you a fresh cup of tea. This one has been sitting here for a while. It's gone cold.” 

Crowley’s eyes were barely open. All Aziraphale could see were slivers of his yellow eyes, blown out to cover the whites entirely. They had been uncontrollable and glassy for an entire month. 

“Can I have another blanket?” Crowley’s voice was hoarse, and he drew in a sharp breath between his chapped lips. A shiver wracked his body. 

“I’m sorry, my love, but you’re far too feverish to be under so many layers.” 

Aziraphale typically indulged Crowley's need for warmth. Crowley was so thin, he was always freezing, and the cold seemed to make his condition even worse. But now, as a sick twist of events, he was in desperate need of cooling down. 

When Crowley’s fever hit 39.5 degrees that morning, Aziraphale had pulled the thick, down comforter off of him and replaced it with a lighter, spare blanket they kept in a trunk by the foot of their bed. He kept Crowley in his wool socks and sweatpants to help his thin body retain some heat. He allowed the hot water bottle to stay pressed against his tummy to keep the cramping and indigestion at bay. But trapping him in a sauna under a mountain of blankets didn’t seem wise. 

Crowley didn't mind and slept through Aziraphale changing their bedding and laying compresses on his forehead, wrists, and neck. 

At 40 degrees, Crowley seemed to notice the missing layers and the chilled water all over his chest and arms. 

“I’m cold, angel.” 

“I know. It’s just chills. They'll go away if we get your temperature down, and we'll get your temperature down if you stay like this.” 

Crowley shook his head as if Aziraphale wasn't hearing him correctly. His voice became a little desperate. “No, I’m  cold _. _ ” 

“I know. I know.” 

“Angel.” His voice cracked, and tears collected in his eyes. “Please. I’m cold.” 

Aziraphale sighed. Giving into Crowley’s wants would surely mean his body stood no chance fighting the fever. But not giving him an extra blanket wouldn’t help his confusion. 

The poor thing probably didn’t understand why Aziraphale kept telling him no. He probably thought Aziraphale was doing it to be cruel. Aziraphale was the only person in the world whom Crowley trusted at that time, and he was refusing him a basic comfort. A basic need. All Crowley knew was that he was cold, and Aziraphale was doing nothing to help him. 

“Angel,  _ please.”  _

At the heartwrenching _please,_ the tears began sliding down the side of Crowley's face, landing in his hair. 

“Oh, my love, please don’t cry.” Aziraphale grabbed a handkerchief from the nightstand and wiped Crowley’s eyes and drippy nose. “I promise I’m not doing this to torture you. If I give you another blanket, you’ll overheat, and I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to put you out if you turned into a ball of Hellfire. I'm only doing this to help you. Please believe me.” 

Crowley hiccuped. He sobbed now, staring up at Aziraphale with the most mournful eyes the angel had ever seen. It hurt Aziraphale to see him in such a state. His stomach twisted and he felt near tears himself. He wanted to give Crowley everything he wanted, but it would be like giving a dog the chocolate they were begging for. Crowley didn't know that an extra blanket would harm him. He was only focused on being denied it. 

“Here. Maybe this will help.” 

Aziraphale moved to his own side of the bed, kicked off his slippers, shed his cardigan, and pulled off his bowtie. He climbed underneath the sparse covers and shimmied to Crowley. He got as close as he could and draped an arm over his waist. 

It wasn’t heat that he let off but rather a holy essence. With a little effort, it would give Crowley the illusion of being warm but wouldn’t raise his temperature. It would be just enough to get Crowley back to sleep. And then, Aziraphale could slip off and tend to other business. 

And maybe there was also a little warmth radiating off the angel who naturally ran a little hot. But surely that wouldn't hurt as much as a blanket would. 

“Is this better?” Aziraphale whispered. 

Crowley grabbed his shirt, his sobs tapering off. He shivered against Aziraphale even though his skin was burning. Aziraphale briefly thought about taking Crowley's trousers off to cool him further, but he knew it would lead to more crying. And he couldn't handle anymore of that. 

Aziraphale stared at Crowley’s hollow cheeks as he closed his eyes. He looked worse than he did only a month before. He had lost weight that Aziraphale didn’t know he had, and he was spending nearly every hour of the day in restless sleep, constantly exhausted. Aziraphale carried him more often for his shaky legs could hardly support him and his vision often dimmed upon standing. 

Aziraphale worried about where he would be by the end of the year. Surely, Crowley couldn’t get  _ worse.  _ The nightmares, the anxiety, the bouts of illness from a broken immune system, they all had to be at their peak. It just couldn’t be possible for Crowley to get worse. 

Although, they had thought the same thing a month ago. 

“Let me know if you need anything else,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley was already asleep. Aziraphale didn’t know how much longer he could keep it up. He would exhaust himself if he continued putting effort into being a personal, holy space heater. And if he was exhausted, he wouldn’t be of any use to Crowley. 

After an hour, he began to have trouble keeping his eyes open. His own breathing was evening out. 

The warm aura died when he finally drifted off, his burning demon pressed into his side. 

* * *

“As I’ve mentioned, Anthony has been quite ill this winter. And this week, he’s battling a nasty virus that he hasn’t managed to kick yet. So, I’ve decided that while he has a little nap, I’m going to make him soup by hand.” 

Aziraphale gestured to the ingredients in front of him. Bowls of chopped carrots, celery, pre-shredded chicken Aziraphale had roasted prior to filming, white beans, a lemon, and a cup of chicken stock. 

“Now, there is more to the recipe than what I have, but I don’t want to overwhelm Anthony. We try to keep food as bland as possible right now. If you’d like to make your own soup more flavorful, you can add garlic, onions, whatever herbs and spices you like in your chicken soup.” 

He took a beat and walked off camera. 

In the sitting room, Crowley slept. His fever, though lower than it had been the day before, lulled him into a deep, exhausted sleep. 

Aziraphale knelt in front of him and pulled back his blankets to expose his hot water bottle. It was lukewarm. Laying his hand over it, the water heated back up until it was just as toasty as Crowley liked it. Aziraphale laid Crowley’s hand over it to ensure it would stay in its place. 

“Good afternoon,” Aziraphale whispered when the movement roused Crowley. He blinked at Aziraphale and said nothing. “I’m making you soup. Chicken and white bean. Does that sound nice?”

Crowley nodded. His eyes closed. He was sound asleep again. Aziraphale would accept exhausted, deep sleeps that took Crowley away for hours over shallow sleeps interrupted by dreams of grey and black suits. At least then, it seemed like Crowley was getting some rest. 

Aziraphale returned to the kitchen. He took a deep breath in front of the camera and placed his hands on the kitchen island. He had begged Crowley for more counter space once he caught the baking bug. Crowley had smiled and snapped his fingers on the third night of pleading. The kitchen expanded and an island appeared. 

It wasn’t their first home renovation. Crowley had given him a library that was bigger once one was inside and many bookshelves. Aziraphale expanded their bed and put up blackout curtains in their room for when the snake wanted long naps. The kitchen, though, was all for Aziraphale. Crowley didn’t know the first thing about cooking or baking. It was Aziraphale's space. 

“You’ll need chicken stock and chicken and white beans as your very basics. But we also have carrots and celery and lemon for a little more nutrition.” Aziraphale pulled a pot into view. “The lovely thing about soups is that you can add and discard ingredients as you like. You don’t need to stick to just one recipe. It’s perfect when you have sickly husbands who were already picky eaters.” 

* * *

Aziraphale helped Crowley hold his spoon and bring it to his mouth. 

“Do you have any feedback?” 

“I like the lemon.” 

“Can you taste it?” Aziraphale smiled. “I was worried I hadn’t put enough in. I didn’t know how much you’d like.” 

“It’s fine.” 

Aziraphale helped him take another spoonful of soup. Crowley swallowed it and then turned his head away. 

“Are we done?” 

He nodded. Five spoonfuls was a success. Aziraphale had expected less out of him, but perhaps the long naps had helped him recover some of his long-lost appetite. 

“You did wonderfully. I’ll save the rest for later in case you feel peckish.” 

Crowley hardly felt peckish. He was almost always nauseous. It was a battle to get him to eat anything. 

Crowley settled back onto his makeshift bed and closed his eyes. Aziraphale brushed his hair from his forehead and let his hand linger on Crowley’s brow. 

“I think your fever’s gone down even more,” he said. “We’ll check it once you’ve rested up.” 

Aziraphale tucked him in, making sure that would stay warm while he slept. 

He took Crowley’s cup of soup and poured it out to spare any germs from making their way into the sterile batch. The pot was divided into small containers. A few were frozen for the weeks to come. The dishes were washed, the floor was swept, the countertops were cleaned. All the while, Crowley slept without a disturbance. 

And all the while, somewhere on the internet, people were sending in even more condolences to Aziraphale on the video that magically appeared on his channel. There was a forum discussing the newest update on “Anthony’s” health. There were group chats pinging with new notifications every few minutes. And there was a lot of love being built up to go into thousands of bowls of future soup. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my AU and are interested in the foods mentioned in it, or if you like cooking yourself, I have a discord server where we talk about recipes. Anyone is welcome to join with this invite code: YS5qvrh. 
> 
> If you'd like to read more of my works, you can find me on Tumblr at Mostweakhamlets.


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